Killer. (Book Six)

Nineteen: Spencer Wheels And Deals.

After school on Friday, Spencer's closest field hockey friend, Kirsten Cullen, pulled up to Spencer's curb and tanked up the parking brake.

"Thanks so much for the ride," Spencer said. Just because her parents had taken away her wheels didn't mean she was about to climb aboard the smelly Rosewood Day school bus.

"No worries," Kirsten said. "You need a ride on Monday, too?"

"If it's not too much trouble," Spencer mumbled.

She's tried calling Aria for a ride, since Aria now lived one neighborhood over, but Aria had said she had "something to do" this afternoon, mysteriously not saying what it was. And it wasn't like she could ask Andrew. All day, she'd thought he was going to apologize—if he had, she would have apologized to him too, and promised they would stay together if she moved. Andrew pointedly didn't say a word to her in any of their shared classes. That, Spencer figured, was that.

Kirsten gave Spencer a wave and pulled away from the curb one-handed. Turning, Spencer walked up the driveway. The neighborhood was still and silent, and the sky was a drab, purplish-gray. The KILLER graffiti on the garage doors had been painted over, but the new color didn't quite match, and the word still showed through faintly. Spencer averted her eyes, not wanting to look at it. Who had put it there? A? But...why? To scare her, or to warn her?

The house was empty, smelling like Murphy's Oil Soap and Windex, meaning the Hastingses' cleaning lady, Candace, had just left. Spencer ran upstairs, grabbed Olivia's expandable folder from the desk in her room, and exited the house through the back door. Even though her parents weren't here, she didn't want to be in their house when she did this. She needed complete privacy.

She unlocked the barn's front door and flipped on the kitchen and living room lights. Everything was as she'd left it since the last time she'd been in here, down to the half-filled water glass by the computer. She plopped down on the couch and pulled out her Sidekick. A's message was the last text she'd received. How does disappearing forever sound?

At first, the note had scared her, but after a while, she'd seen it another way. Disappearing forever sounded fine—disappearing from Rosewood, that was. And Spencer knew just how she could.

She dumped Olivia's file folder on the coffee table, its contents practically spilling out onto the throw rug. The Realtor's card was right on top. With shaking hands, Spencer dialed his number. The phone rang once, then twice. "Michael Hutchins," a man's voice squawked.

Spencer sat up and cleared her throat. "Hi. My name is Spencer Hastings," she said, trying to sound older and professional. "My mom is your client. Olivia Caldwell?"

"Of course, of course." Michael sounded overjoyed. "I didn't realize she had a daughter. Have you seen their new place yet? It's going to be photographed for the New York Times Home section next month."

Spencer wound a piece of hair around her finger. "Not yet. But...I will. Soon."

"So what can I do for you?"

She crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her heart thudded through her ears. "Well...I'd like an apartment. In New York. Preferably somewhere near Olivia. Is that doable?"

She heard Michael flipping some papers. "I believe so. Hang out. Let me pull up the database of what's available."

Spencer bit down are on her thumbnail. This felt surreal. She stared out the window at the rock-lined pool and hot tub, the tiered back deck, the two dogs frolicking near the fence. Then, she turned and gazed at the windmill. LIAR. It was still there, not yet painted over. Maybe her parents had left it for Spencer as a reminder, the equivalent of the big red A in The Scarlet Letter. Ali's old house next door no longer had the Do Not Cross tape over the half-dug hole—the new owners had finally had the sense to take it down—but the hole hadn't been filled yet. Behind the barn were the woods, thick and black and brimming with secrets.